


methadone

by shutupnerd



Category: Dangan Ronpa 3: The End of 希望ヶ峰学園 | The End of Kibougamine Gakuen | End of Hope's Peak High School
Genre: Background Relationships, Drug Addiction, Drug Use, Drug Withdrawal, Emetophobia, Gen, Hospitalization, Minor Kirigiri Kyoko/Naegi Makoto, Nurses, Oneshot, Sickfic, but in a very literal sense, coping fic, im working through some shit, sorry - Freeform, unedited
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-13
Updated: 2021-02-13
Packaged: 2021-03-12 18:07:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,062
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29388885
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shutupnerd/pseuds/shutupnerd
Summary: someone flushed izuru's pills.
Comments: 15
Kudos: 45





	methadone

**Author's Note:**

> hi guys sorry if anything is inaccurate--i did my research but if i missed something or got something wrong. sorry. this one's a bit more personal than other fics ive uploaded, especially recently. i've kind of fallen out of posting particularly personal works...so might as well get back on that streak with this. have fun. i'll be back on my usual nonsense before long.

He’s in the hospital when he wakes up (that’s not where he fell unconscious, he knows that much.), hastily stuffed into a hospital gown that’s too big for him. The room is white and blue and the fluorescents sting his eyes. 

It’s a familiar setting. Hospitals are always the same.

There’s nobody else in the room, at least not in his direct line of sight. From what he can tell, he’s not restrained either. Strange, considering they threatened to muzzle him when he got taken to the interrogation room. He’s only out of handcuffs when he’s in his cell, usually. But here he is, the only attachments to him being the IV taped into his left hand and the sensor clipped to his finger, displaying his vitals on a screen out of his line of sight. The beep of his heartbeat is constant and just quiet enough to not be terribly grating. By the looks of it, he’s completely unrestrained and completely unsupervised.

Well, it’s not as if he can move, anyway. It’s a bit unnecessary to keep a close eye on someone in the condition he’s finding himself in. His body feels like it’s made of lead, slowly melting and seeping into the thin mattress. Everything feels like it’s muffled, but that’s probably because he’s sunken into a pillow that’s large enough to cover his ears and feel like he’s being swallowed up. He tries to move his arm, sit up to see exactly what’s being pumped into him. His fingers don’t even twitch. For all intents and purposes, he’s stuck in the bed. For now, anyway.

He’s hot, uncomfortably hot, feeling like he’s coated in sweat all over (unusual, for him). Fever is the most logical explanation. The exhaustion also contributes to the theory. He’s only just come back to himself, and yet every part of him  _ yearns  _ to fall back asleep. Not yet. He just came to--he needs to know what’s going on, remember how he even got here--

Oh. 

That’s right.

Naegi flushed his pills. 

It had been a profoundly stupid thing to do, even with Naegi’s proclivity to profoundly stupid things. He’s not quite sure  _ how  _ Naegi found out, though he will figure it out. Someone told--likely not Komaeda. But until he figures out who  _ did  _ tell Future Foundation about them, nobody is above suspicion.

They’d taken him out for some sort of interrogation, not that he’d said much of anything. He doesn’t talk to them. They can’t get anything out of him, no matter what they try. So they’ve started to turn to the others, seeing what they can extract about him from anyone else. They’re all too willing to spill it all, reveling in the chance to see him brought low.

They’ve succeeded. He doesn’t even know if he’s still in the compound. Certainly it doesn’t  _ seem  _ like it would have the facilities necessary to treat what he’s now being forced to deal with, but to take him to a new place without having someone watching him is far more unthinkable.

That doesn’t matter.

Naegi flushed his pills. 

_ “You know better than to be taking something like that!”  _ He’d been so defensive about it. As if he was sure that he knew what was best for Izuru. 

He simply never stopped to consider that it wasn’t recreational.

_ “I need those, Naegi.”  _

_ “You only  _ **_think_ ** _ you need them. You’re going to be a lot better off without them, I promise!”  _ In a strange way, Izuru almost admires how adamant Naegi was in his position. As if the dependency is something to be conquered quickly and easily.  _ “You’ll feel better in no time!” _ _  
  
_

He doesn’t remember anything after Naegi left him in his cell. He can only assume he collapsed. He is here now, after all. Laying down, in a room he doesn’t recognize, tucked in under a scratchy blanket, sucked into a pillow.

It’s not exactly ideal. His stomach aches and twists into itself, sending shockwaves of pain through his torso. He knows what it is--it’s easily recognizable, withdrawal. Until now, he’s done a fine job of avoiding it. 

Hope’s Peak had made sure he was completely dependent on whatever they could put on his tongue--it made him easier to control. And it had worked like a charm; his entire body altered to the constant intake. That wasn’t going to clear up once he escaped. So he found a bottle on the way out and he’s been improvising ever since. He’s always managed to find refills, only travelling to towns with pharmacies. It took awhile for Komaeda to catch on. Even longer for everyone else. But some of them figured it out, and one of them gave up that information.

And now he’s in the hospital. 

The door that he can’t see opens. Unfamiliar steps pad across the tile floor--the door closes. A lock doesn’t sound. So they really aren’t afraid of him. 

It’s a woman who leans down and smiles when she sees that he’s awake. A nurse with pink Hello Kitty scrubs. That’s new.

“Hi, baby! You’re finally up!”

He wants to cringe at the pet name, tell her not to call him that, but to even push words from his mouth would take more strength than he has. It’s a deadly combination: the symptoms, his own poor, neglected health, and the immune system that his makers tampered with (that wasn’t to control him. That was an accident, one of his only imperfections. But they capitalized on it regardless.). All of these things have left what would have just felt like a bad case of the flu into something far more potent. 

He can’t acknowledge her, so he doesn’t. It’s not like he would, except to tell her...well, to call him his name. 

“You’re gonna be just fine, I promise, okay?” She bustles over to where he thinks the monitor is, taking her clipboard and scribbling down the numbers. She’s quick about it. It already seems like she’s going to be quick about everything. He supposes that’s alright. It makes everything easier for him. Once she’s finished with that, she comes over and gives him another big, wide smile.

“I know you’re awake, baby. Can you talk? Can you move?”

He can’t. But he doesn’t really have a way to communicate that. For all she knows, it’s business as usual for him and he’s just ignoring her. 

After a moment of nothing, it starts to look like she feels awkward. “...alright. I know it’s your thing to ignore us all, but I also need a way to know whether you’re...doing that or not. Blink once for yes, and twice for no. Can you talk?”

He blinks twice.   
  


“Can you move?”

He blinks twice. 

“Are you lying to me?”

He blinks twice. 

“Alrighty then. Why don’t you do your best to open your mouth, so I can take your temperature. If you can’t do that, it’s okay. You’re on a lot of medicine right now, and you’re probably in a lot of pain. But I’m gonna do my best to make this as easy as possible for you, okay?”

He closes his eyes. She’s being nice to him, so gentle with how she sticks the thermometer under his heavy tongue. She doesn’t audibly react when she takes it out and reads it--just the sound of pencil on paper. 

He’s covered in sweat and goosebumps and while he  _ knows  _ he’s running a fever, he’s switched from being insanely hot to freezing cold. The blanket is relatively thin, the air of the room is cold and filtered, the gown is riding up his legs and slipping off his shoulders. But the blanket stays undisturbed. That’s nice enough, at least. He might be shivering. He can’t tell, and he doesn’t like it. 

“The doctor will be in soon, okay?”

So this is who he’s to be stuck with. He’s had worse caregivers. At least she seems to be interested in him. She smooths down his sheets. Her eyes spark when she hears his breath catch--she’s smart, then, to pick up that he’d get apprehensive when her hands get close to his skin.

She doesn’t say anything, though, simply springing back to her feet when the door opens. It’s the doctor, his coat flapping about him as he storms in, flanked by--

Naegi. He looks nervous, his gaze bouncing around the room. He stops dead in his tracks when he sees Izuru staring at him.

The nurse, as he suspects will be the case from now on, speaks for him. “He’s awake, but he can’t move or talk.”

“Noted.” 

Naegi looks stricken, pale as he breaks out in a cold sweat. Izuru finds this a more than appropriate reaction. This is his fault, after all. He will likely be falling over himself to apologize the second he’s able.

“It’s good that you’re up.” The doctor pulls the stethoscope from around his neck and checks his heartbeat. He doesn’t have to ask for Izuru to take the breaths in and out. The hands are away from him quickly enough, taking the offered clipboard from the nurse. He sits down next to Izuru, flipping through what she’s written. “We’re giving you methadone. You’re going to have to ride a lot of this out, though. We won’t let anything permanent happen...but you have a rough few days ahead of you. I’m going to tell it to you straight: your body isn’t well-equipped to handle this. You’re malnourished and you clearly haven’t had the opportunity to properly take care of yourself,” he says, shooting a pointed glance at Naegi. The short man retracts into himself. “So your symptoms are quite...severe. You’ll regain movement in a day or two, hopefully. Just do your best to rest, alright?”

He tries to nod, and it doesn’t work. The doctor seems to get it, regardless. These professionals feel different than the ones at Hope’s Peak already. They seem to...for lack of a better phrase, give a shit about him. He’s not just the object to be attained. It seems like they see him as an actual patient. How interesting. 

The doctor talks some more, but he doesn’t really listen. He stares at the ceiling, the words more like white noise than anything else.

He doesn’t zone back in until the doctor gets up, Naegi replacing him in the chair while the other man takes another look at the monitor, the nurse checking his blood pressure. 

“Hi,” he tries nervously, chuckling awkwardly. His hand crinkles into a small wave. “So...let’s just get it out of the way. I’m sorry.” He whispers the last part, so the others don’t hear him. “But...on the bright side...you’re not going to have to take them anymore. They’re going to fix you all up and you’ll never have to use them again.” 

So he doesn’t understand. Even after putting another person in the hospital, he doesn’t really see what he did. He feels terrible that he caused hurt, of course he does, it’s plain on his face. But he sees the end goal: Izuru off his dirty, nasty pills. Naegi, really, is saving him by taking them away.

In the end, he’s still absolved of guilt even as Izuru lies in his bed, too weak to move. Too weak to move. 

He babbles on for a little longer, but Izuru  _ really  _ isn’t listening now, his eyes fluttering shut as he stops trying to resist the urge to fall back asleep. It’s all just white noise to him. Nothing about this is comfortable, he’s just too tired for anything else.

He’s almost gone when the nurse pipes up again. “No, honey. Not yet. You still need to eat, okay? Then you can rest.” 

He has no interest in eating. His stomach is tearing itself apart—why  _ would  _ he eat? 

“Do you mind if I stay—” Naegi starts.

“You can stay longer another time.” He pulls his eyes open to the nurse beginning to take him out. The doctor is already gone. “He needs all the rest he can get. Come back in a few days when he starts to feel better, alright?”

“I or someone else will be back tomorrow, then—Kirigiri might come by later. We can’t leave him alone.”

“He’s not going anywhere, honey. We’re not leaving him alone. I’ll let you go now, okay?” 

Naegi tries to argue more, but the nurse practically pushes him out, firmly shutting the door behind her. 

She turns back to Izuru, her expression softening. She’s...nice. It feels as if she actually sees  _ him,  _ and not what he’s done.

“Tired, huh? Let’s get some food in you. Then you can sleep all you want.”

He’s going to vomit up anything that’s put in his mouth. He knows that already. 

She fits an arm under his back and on his chest and sits him up—it’s a fight not to retreat into himself when her hands brush bare skin, to leave his presence of mind entirely when she pulls his gown back onto his shoulders. His head falls forward, resting against his chest. Familiar. This feeling is familiar.

It takes a few minutes for the food to arrive—“Come on, open up.”—at least it's plain, just a broth and crackers. It likely won’t upset his stomach  _ too  _ badly. She’s patient, not rushing him. He’s never been a fast eater, but even swallowing is a herculean effort right now. She holds his chin up so he can take the slow bites without a hint of judgment.

God, he hates it. There isn’t much that he cares about enough to hate. But this is objectively  _ awful.  _ He hasn’t been this vulnerable in  _ years,  _ arguably he’s  _ never  _ been this vulnerable. Even at his lowest, Hope’s Peak kept him on around-the-clock surveillance and they knew exactly what to do with him. These are just regular people. Talentless people, caring for him. Something could so easily go wrong. And he has  _ hands _ on him, holding him up while soup is spooned into his mouth.

“It’s okay, you’re almost done.” Some spills on his chin and she wipes it away. He can’t even flinch. This could have been avoidable. This is  _ all  _ avoidable. But someone snitched, and Naegi wanted to make it into a lesson about the dangers of drugs, and now Izuru’s practically paralyzed, sent back to square one in all senses of the idea. 

They’d started drugging him long before Izuru was himself. Whatever poor, normal, useless boy he’d been before had been fed opiates like candy, just to keep him sedated. He’d been a fighter, apparently, even though he’d signed the papers. He doesn’t have much pity for whoever he’d been before. But he doesn’t resent him, either. They’re in the same boat, now. Stuck on a hospital bed. They’ve come full-circle.

If only that other boy wasn’t dead. Izuru has only ever been himself and he supposes he’s content with that, as content as he can be with something. He’s not really content with much. He’s wondering now what that boy would say, about what Izuru has done with the body he inherited. About how he contributed to further ruination of artificial perfection.

They made him to surpass God. He has surpassed God, in some ways. If he hadn’t surpassed God, he’d be dead of overdose or from the million times people have tried to kill him. And yet, he’s still somehow so far below Him (if He’s even there) that he’s confined to a single cold room once more, a nurse in all pink (her scrubs are pink, her shoes have pink laces, her cheeks and lids and lips are all faintly tinted with pink, she has tiny pink studs in her ears, the band of her wristwatch is pink. It’s all pink.) spoon-feeding him because he can’t use his own hands. 

He’s neutral on most colors. But by the discharge, he has a theory that he may be a little fonder of pink than he was before. Or a little less fonder of pink than he has been before. 

She dabs at his face with a napkin and puts a straw in his mouth, lets him drink and flush the lingering taste out. “Here. Drink up.”

Once he’s done for real, his stomach is already starting to turn. She eases him back down into bed. “Rest. I’ll be here when you wake up.”

It’s thoroughly uncomfortable--everything is. But he doesn’t have the strength to complain. His eyes fall closed and he’s so, so tired. Sleeping would be good, sleeping is restorative. If he’s asleep, nobody can bother him. They’ll go about their business and he won’t get implicated. 

But he doesn’t fall asleep. His eyes are closed and he’s not moving, and it  _ looks  _ like he’s asleep, but he’s doing anything but resting. His body fluctuates from feeling too hot and too cold, his stomach is curdling and caving in on himself, his skin is covered in sweat and goosebumps. Someone braided his hair back before he woke up, snaking over the side of the bed in a thick rope. Every bit of it that’s fallen out is sticking to his skin, getting into his mouth with no way to pull it out. He’s shivering, his heartbeat erratic and swinging with his breathing. 

The door has stayed open, the buzz of the other rooms leaking in as he tries and fails to rest. There are snatches of conversation that he doesn’t even try to understand, another nurse stopping by and sticking their head in the door. At least, he thinks they’re another nurse.

“So you ended up getting stuck with him? That’s rough,” they chuckle. 

“I volunteered.”

He files that information away for later. 

“I thought nobody else wanted him.”

“I wanted to make sure he’s properly taken care of. You know a lot of us hold grudges.”

“I mean, can you blame anyone? He’s  _ sent  _ a lot of people here before. You know...terrorism.” 

She sighs. “I know.”

“And you volunteered anyway?”

“Yeah.” Her shoes don’t quite squeak on the floor. “He needs it. Now go take your break, babe. You’ve been on your feet all day; go eat your dinner. Don’t worry about me or him!”

The person leaves, whoever they are. The door to his room stays open. He thinks. 

His eyes are still closed, and she thinks he’s asleep. Once the person is gone, she sighs audibly, the mattress sinking where she sits down next to him for a moment.

“You’ve got a fight coming,” she mumbles. “You’re already fighting it.”

It’s quiet after that, and she gets up. He doesn’t sleep for a while, laying immobile in a bed he’d never been in before. But even amongst the chills and hot flashes and his cramping, curdling stomach, the spasms of pain he can’t control shooting through his body, he somehow finds an uneasy, troubled rest.

The nurse looks over as he relaxes into the mattress, the tension slipping from his body like raindrops slipping off the roof of a car. 

“Sleep well.”

-

There are a lot of profoundly inconvenient things about the whole ordeal. But if he has to pick his specific least favorite, the vomiting would take the cake. There have to be  _ hands  _ on him--someone is holding him up and pulling back his hair, someone else is cleaning him up between waves. His eyes burn, his nose is dripping, and  _ God  _ his mouth tastes awful, but they certainly aren’t making it easier on him. They clear out his mouth with water, say  _ just let it run its course,  _ but there are  _ hands all over him  _ and he could swear that it’s making every reaction ten times more potent. 

He can’t stop shaking, though they do their best to curb it. Someone, he’s not sure who, is rubbing his hair, pulling it back out of his face. They’ve already had to change his gown twice; it’s likely they’ll change the sheets after this. It’s base and disgusting—everything about this is. His mouth feels awful, his throat burns, his muscles ache from exertion even with people holding him up.

As far as he can tell, there are three people attending to him: the same doctor as before, the nurse in her Hello Kitty scrubs and pink everything, and another male nurse. Dark scrubs. He seems a little less enthusiastic to be there than his coworkers, but he still is gentle enough with how he holds up Izuru, positioning him like a ragdoll. It’s as optimal of a position as it can be, making sure there are as few ways as possible for him to throw up on someone else.

He’s still thrown up on all of them. He can’t really find it in himself to feel sorry.

He can feel another round starting--they can tell by now that it’s about to start, too, doing their best to keep him over the basin. Sweat drips down his nose and his stomach revolts once more, the familiar burn roaring up his throat. 

The cycle repeats all day, even when he has nothing left to throw up. The heaves wrack his body as they switch his IV to desperately try and rehydrate him.

There’s a moment when the doctor and the male nurse go across the hall to address a more urgent need. As soon as they’re gone the female nurse makes sure nobody is watching.

She takes him ever so gently and wraps him in a hug, tucking his head into her shoulder. He freezes.

“It’s gonna be okay, baby. You’re doing so well. You just have to let it take you for a little while.”

He collapses into her grip, knowing he would return the hug if he could—but not knowing  _ why.  _ He  _ hates  _ not knowing why.

She’s the appropriate distance from him when they return, holding the basin in front of him and wiping the sweat from his forehead.

It’s not long before Naegi comes to visit again as promised, this time supervised by his wife. 

They walk in, Naegi carrying a large box of what looks like candy. (Intended to be a peace offering, he’s sure.) His grip tightens on it so hard that it almost bursts in his hand when he sees Izuru in this utterly demeaning state, covered in his own sick and his gown feeling like it was falling off of him, tugged up and tied more tightly when he’s cleaned off yet again between rounds.

“Is he—“

Kirigiri squeezes his hand, a silent indicator that doesn’t pass Izuru’s sight. She speaks, then.

“Are you alright, Kamukura?”

What does it look like? He blinks twice regardless, already trained in this new way of communication. Only the nurse notices.

He just throws up again, trails of spit hanging from his mouth as she takes him in. His eyes are burning with forced tears, his face coated in them, his nose running to match with it. This is  _ repulsive _ . His stomach is twisting and his face burns and it has nothing to do with his physical condition.

“I’ll take that as a no.”

He wants them gone. They shouldn’t be here. But he  _ can’t say anything. _

In the end Kirigiri is the one who stays through it all, dismissing the other as soon as a particularly nasty round of vomiting starts. Of course Naegi has tried to show up and be brave, but after a while he looks a bit green. This isn’t one Izuru will hold against him—it’s not a display anyone should have to sit through. He shouldn’t be seen like this, this pathetic display of weakness shouldn’t be open to an audience. And the beautiful irony of it all is that he can do  _ nothing  _ about it.

“Go back. He’s not going to be able to talk to you until this passes. I’ll make sure everything stays under control, alright?”

“You sure, Kyoko?”

“Very. Go report back. I’ve got this.” She levies her eyes on him as Naegi leaves, a cool and composed constant among the loud monitors and people shuffling around him. His vision is blurry--she’s little more than a lavender smear in his vision. 

She walks forward and squats in front of him, clearly not afraid to be in whatever line of fire he has left. The way she looks at him reminds him of the way  _ he  _ looks at people; she looks at him like he’s something to be solved, a puzzle to piece together. Something to dissect.

“Is there anything I can help out with?” she asks, looking up at the head doctor. “He seems to be quite the handful right now.”

“Just staying out of the way.” He says it shortly, but not impolitely. “He’s in bad shape. Making sure that he’s calm while he goes through this is the priority--”

“He doesn’t seem calm.” Her eyes feel like they’re scanning him, taking up every bit of information and more in one fell swoop. They just keep staring at each other. This isn’t the first time they’ve met. They’ve seen each other on the opposite ends of an interrogation table. No words are ever exchanged on his end and she doesn’t seem inclined to say much, either. The ring on her finger glints accusingly at him when he falls forward once more, the heaves cracking his chest open, his depleted stomach  _ crying  _ out for relief. “Isn’t there anything you can actually do for him?”

“He’s been given medication. We just have to wait for it to kick in.”

Someone’s playing music, but it’s drowned out by the cracking, nasty heaving that takes everything out of him. He won’t be able to sleep, either--any pain medication has been flushed out already, before it could even reach his bloodstream. Hopefully they’ll give him more, once his body stops this particular revolt. Every cough and retch just further tires him out, drawing on empty reserves.

“...alright.” She sounds skeptical, but sits down in the chair next to his bed. “I’ll stay out of your way.”

_ Leave, _ he wants to tell her.  _ Go. Get out.  _ Of course, she doesn’t.

The retching doesn’t calm down for another hour. It’s silence from her end--she’s just  _ watching.  _ The book in her hands goes unopened and unread. Like this is just more information for her, evidence to observe and dissect. Like his lack of control over himself is a show.

Even when the vomiting seems to be over, he’s still racked with chills and coated in the layer of sweat that seems to just want to stick around. He feels nasty, the hair falling out of his braid looking wet and shiny. He’s a mess. A familiar mess, but a mess all the same. 

At least there’s a window in this room. The dusky light pours like golden ichor into the room, spilling onto him and giving the barest scraps of warmth.

The doctor looks him over, dismisses the male nurse--telling him to go home. Apparently he’d stayed late to help him ride this out. 

“Thank you for helping us. Now go get some rest. See you tomorrow.”

The attention is turned back to him. “Do you think it’s passed?” he asks, staring at Izuru very seriously. “Think about it before you answer.”

He blinks once, slumping against the newly constructed wall of pillows that have been holding him up. He swears that his expression lightens at the answer.

“Good. We’ll try a little bit of solid food tomorrow.” He consults his clipboard, checks Izuru’s vitals one last time. “Mrs. Kirigiri. Please…” he sighs. “Be gentle with him.”

He almost wants to throw up again just at the idea of the sentiment.

“I have no intentions of pushing him in any manner,” she reassures calmly, waving with a gloved hand. “I just have a few questions he needs to answer before I go.”

“Alright. Just make sure to keep his condition in mind.”

He washes his hands and steps out of the room, ready to attend to his other patients.

It’s once again the nurse’s domain to care for him. 

“Mrs. Kirigiri, can you leave the room for a few moments? When he’s ready, I’ll bring you back in.”

She nods stiffly and steps outside. The door closes behind her. She closes it maybe a little too hard, the sound of the shutting door cracking through the room. 

“Okay, baby. Let’s get you cleaned up and changed. Is that okay with you?”

He blinks once.

She washes her hands and pulls his gown off, wetting a disposable cloth and cleaning his face and upper body, making sure she’s quick and efficient, avoiding the surgical scars as best as she can. He’s not particularly responsive to it, but why would he be? He has bigger problems than someone wiping the sweat from his forehead and the bile from his mouth.

“We’ll be able to get you into a shower soon. But you need a little more time to recover before that. I hope that’s okay with you...well, it’s not too big of a worry right now, is it?”

He blinks twice.

  
“Good. That’s what I thought, after all.” She gives him yet another big, utterly genuine smile. She seems to have one for every occasion, no matter whether he’s throwing up or trying to sleep, no matter what. “I’m proud of you, sweetie. You were so strong today,” she said, gently wiping his face and tucking loose hair behind his ear. “Oh, I’ll have to braid your hair back again...it’s starting to fall out, isn’t it?”

He blinks once. He’s waiting for his voice to return, so he can actually give his own thoughts on his treatment--question her on the way she’s treating him. Why she volunteered for this--his mind has been too foggy to start to piece things together. Too many medications. Too much pain. And he doesn’t have his pills. (He’ll probably never have his pills again.) Then perhaps he'll forever be damned a mind cloudier than he would like, and if not cloudier, quicker-moving than he’d like. If his mind doesn’t slow down, he’ll never rest. 

The nurse leaves him where he is and does the quickest change of sheets he’s ever seen.

His mind is too cloudy to think about it.

His mind is  _ not _ the problem to be addressed right now. Right now, he has to meet Kirigiri and whatever challenge she’s coming with. The old gown is discarded along with the rag. He’s clean(er) and tied into a new one. It still slips off his shoulders when he sits up. They’ll probably give him a proper bath soon. Hopefully. He smells awful.

But if it bothers Kirigiri, she doesn’t give any indication of it. She comes back in as he’s being laid down and tucked back into his bed. 

The IV is reinserted, his vitals are scribbled back down.

“Try not to take too long, ma’am. He’s had a rough day.”

“I can tell. Don’t worry, I won’t be long. We just have to report back on his recovery, since—“

“The officials are banned from his room, yes.” Her voice shifts suddenly, to something cold and clipped. “Do remind them to read up on proper hospital etiquette when you report back, won’t you?”

More information he didn’t have. So his jailers had been inappropriate upon the hospitalization, then. 

“I will be sure to pass that along.”

Kirigiri pulls the chair over and sits next to his bed. “One blink for yes and two for no, right?”   
  


“Yes,” the nurse says, the sink turning on while she washes her hands again. 

“Alright.” She turns back to Izuru. Her hair is pulled out of her face, not a single strand out of place. “I just need to know if you’re recovering.”

That shouldn’t be something he has to answer a set of questions for. He thought she’d be able to get those answers just from watching him for the past several hours. 

“I’m not going to bother asking you any of the mundane things. I’ve seen enough already to know better than to give you the checklist. Is that fine by you?”

He blinks once.

“That’s what I thought,” she says, clicking a pen of her own and checking boxes off her own clipboard. “Are you being treated fairly by the staff?”

More than fairly. Thus far they’ve even dared to treat him well. He blinks once. 

More useless questions. Just to make sure that he’s not actively dying. He’s not. This place he’s found himself is far from ideal, and he’s certainly in an unfortunate set of straits, but dying from withdrawal is rare. He wouldn’t let himself be taken by something so mundane. So boring. He has so much more to do, unfortunately. Too many ideas haven’t been explored and he has questions he needs to have answered.

So he tunes out, giving the bare minimum of his attention to her. She and the nurse both notice but say nothing. 

Only the last question draws him back out of the tired haze. “Are you going to let Naegi try to talk things out with you, once you can speak again?”

The beeping on the heart monitor speeds up. The radio playing tinny pop music is downed out once more by that tell-tale, confessional beeping. That’s more of an answer than she needs, more than what she needs to know. He has no control over his narrative. He has no power here. He can’t control the conversation or drive the energy of the room. He can’t protect his thoughts or control what he says. 

She notices it. She also notices the way his breath picks up, ragged and labored.

“I’ll mark you down as undecided. He won’t come back again until you can hold a better conversation.”

So she’s done, then. The heart monitor doesn’t slow down. 

“I’ll see you tomorrow, Kamukura.” 

-

His voice starts to return on the third day. The nurse comes in, reliving the overnight help who doesn’t really seem to like him as much. Nice enough, in the way all half-decent nurses are. But her distaste for him is palpable when she cleans his IV and inserts the new needle, with the way she puts the chicken broth in his mouth with an air of reluctance. He doesn’t mind. She plays classical music. He doesn’t mind classical music. They don’t talk. She just tells him to call if he needs help. He doesn’t need help.

Her scrubs are yellow. He doesn’t know the names of anyone who’s caring for him. If they told him, it was when he couldn’t comprehend it. So he knows them by color. Yellow (but her makeup is bronzy and minimal. Just a bit on her eyes and gloss on her lips.), pink (she has a new pair of Hello Kitty scrubs everyday. Despite himself, Izuru is fond of her. She brings books with her for when he’s asleep. Sometimes she closes the door and reads aloud.), navy blue (the male nurse he’s only seen once. It wasn’t as if they had much time to discuss anything, considering he was holding Izuru through an entire day of vomiting.), and of course, white for the doctor in his lab coat. But he always has a new tie, at least. Today, it’s red with a cherry blossom pattern. 

“Good morning, Kamukura.”

“Hello, doctor,” he croaks back, just to show that he can. He doesn’t really want to say much, but he’s been well trained to show signs of recovery as quickly as possible. He can move his head, too, now. His arms, a little bit, if he tries. A lot of good that does him. But it’s better than nothing. 

The doctor smiles at him. There’s plain relief in his face, maybe even some pride. (Why does he seem so happy? It’s the most basic of recovery. His fever hasn’t even broken yet, still dangerously high.) 

“It’s good to hear your voice. How are you feeling?”

There’s no use in lying. Lying to a doctor never ends well. Lying means he’ll be punished--nothing permanent, but a few days without food has always made him more...pliable, even when he doesn’t want to be. Once, he’d tried to turn it back on them. Refused any food whatsoever, no matter how hard it got. It worked, for a while. They’d been angry, frustrated. And he hadn’t budged. Maybe he’d finally have a small victory.

Then they fed him through an IV--held him down and taped it into his elbow. He doesn’t fight with doctors anymore. 

“Unwell.” 

“Why don’t you elaborate on that for me? We can help you better now that you can talk.”

He shifts, trying to get comfortable under the sheets. Both his and the nurses' faces light up. 

“I am cold. And hungry. My stomach hurts and my muscles ache. I don’t sleep easily when I try to rest.”

It’s mindless conversation. He doesn’t have to think about it. It’s calming to have to answer questions without the same amount of effort as before. The words just fall out of his mouth. They’re raspy and his throat is dry, but he ignores it. They put the straw back in his mouth and make him drink regardless. 

“Slow, baby. You don’t want to upset your stomach again.”

His stomach still hurts. And he’s hungry, but he abstains from eating for now. They’ll try and give him something small later, after he takes his medicine. (He won’t be able to keep it down. But all things considered, today’s round of vomiting is far more manageable.)

They’ve already put him into a new monotonous routine. They take his vitals and temperature and put the pills on his tongue, washing down the bitterness with not-quite-cold, filtered hospital water. Bathe him--well, as much as they can. Then normally he’ll be left alone for a while, the nurse flitting in and out and talking to him when he’s responsive. Lots of trying to sleep. Little actual sleep.

But today, there is an interruption before the Future Foundation sends over Naegi or Kirigiri or whoever decides they want to accost him today.

“I was thinking we’d wash your hair today,” the nurse says. Hello Kitty isn’t on her scrubs today--they’re light green and patterned with cartoon frogs. Her shoes and makeup and watch are still pink. “Is that alright with you?”

“You’ll find it to be a time-consuming task,” he mumbles, testing to see if he can roll from his back to his side. (He can, but it’s painful and not worth the effort.) “I don’t often have the time put aside to do it.” He doesn’t mention that usually someone does it for him. Komaeda will happily spend hours cleaning his hair for him, brushing it out and washing it with whatever they can find. 

“I just figured you’d feel better if your hair was clean, is all! We haven’t gotten around to washing it yet.”

“If you have time and the product for it, feel free to.” He closes his eyes, tired of talking. He’s glad he can’t touch his hair right now--greasy and strands twisting together to weigh him down.

So his hair is cleaned. Her hands are deft and quick, not uttering a word about how dirty it is. But she has to ask someone to bring in more shampoo twice. Maybe they should get bigger bottles. 

She’s not quite done drying his hair when Kirigiri and Naegi make their presence known once more. He’s getting tired of seeing them. 

“The doctor told us you can speak.” He’s still behind the curtain, so they can’t see the nurse tying his gown back up and toweling his hair off.

He doesn’t want to. He hadn’t spoken to them before this, why would he do it now? He only exchanged words with Makoto out of necessity. (At the end of the day, he’d only be willing to talk to Togami, perhaps. Maybe Hagakure. The heir seems to understand him in a way others didn’t. Created and raised up with common purpose. As for Hagakure, he’s...friendly, really. Honest with his intentions in a way nobody is with him. Even if he is the most visibly afraid of him.) 

Even with the routine interrupted, nothing is changing. 

Everything has already fallen into being the  _ same. _

How discouraging. How boring.

He doesn’t sleep that night, either. But his hair is clean and brushed and braided. That’s something at least, right?

He’d forgotten what feels like for medicine to make him sleepy like this. Sleepy, but unable to rest, with the spasms in his muscles and the endless agony of his stomach. The overnight nurse heaves him up so he doesn’t choke, but he knows she’s upset when it gets on her shoes. Even this abnormality is already monotonous. 

Skipping from routine to routine, then. How predictable. He expected it, of course, but that doesn’t make it less...disappointing. At least they treat him well here. 

\--

Another two days, and he’s back on his feet. Shakily, of course, and with someone holding his arms, but he’s up. Up, on shaky, socked feet. He takes one step, then another. It  _ aches.  _ Every step sends shooting pains up his leg, but he’s walking. 

“You’re doing great, baby,” the nurse says encouragingly, holding him under his arms. “Do you think you can stand on your own?”

“Maybe.” There’s no harm in trying, he supposes. She falls back and slowly lets go, ready to catch him if he falls. He’s still attached to his IV, his hand wrapped around the cold metal pole for support. He takes his own step, doing his best not to stumble. It hurts, but he can ignore it, because everything still hurts.

Walking makes him nauseous. Everything is making him nauseous. He has a hand over his mouth. Just in case. 

He wants his suit back. It’s cold in the gown, he feels too opened up and exposed. There’s too much at risk to fall open, the ugly scar down his chest peeking out when he moves or is moved. But the return of his clothes means returning to that cell. Without his pills. The inner pockets are empty, the small white tablets whittled down to nothing and any he had hidden smoked out and flushed. They’d kept him out of the room long enough for even the best-hidden pills to be found.

Their goal is to get him off them. At least, that’s Makoto Naegi’s goal. Izuru is someone to be saved, to him. They all are. Him and all the other remnants. They’re puppies in the rain, simply misguided and able to be brought to the great light of hope. 

He really doesn’t seem to want to acknowledge what they’ve all actually done. Redemption to the “good” side seems to be more important to him. No matter that they’re all killers. No matter that Nevermind burned her country to the ground and salted the earth, starving her citizens all the while. No matter that Owari has a habit of using Future Foundation members or anyone else she can find as punching bags. 

As far as Izuru knows, they were able to convert four of Komaeda’s children to their side. Perhaps it’s put the idea in their heads that more of Junko’s pets are willing to change. It doesn’t help that it feels like Naegi has concentrated his efforts on him. He is the one that is visited and badgered, no matter what he does. 

He takes another step. The door is open. He could make a break for it. He  _ could _ . It wasn’t as if he’d get very far--he’s walking like a newborn fawn, his ankles shaking like leaves in the wind. He’d fall before he made it out of the hallway, certainly she would stop him as soon as he got too close to the door. And no doubt there would be a panic. Any dissent from him would spell more punishment. He’s already bound to face a few very disgruntled committee members when he’s returned to them. He wonders what the nurse and doctor would say to Sakukura, after he slammed Izuru’s head into the table for the crime of silence. They hadn’t sent him to the hospital then. He’s surprised that he even got to the hospital now. Once his pills were victim to the sewer system, he expected to be ushered to their little infirmary.

But he’s not complaining. This is far preferable. While it’s routine, while it’s boring, it’s still people who don’t look at him with fear or disdain. The pediatric ward is next to his unit and sometimes he can hear the children playing. It’s strangely calming. 

He’s considered asking the nurse to keep Naegi out of his room, but he hasn’t. Once he’s shipped back to his cell the man surely won’t leave him be. Temporarily banning him will only make the bothering worse and surely he’ll end up being punished for asking simply to be left alone. 

He’s already going to be punished when he goes back. 

“Why did the other Future Foundation members get banned from my room?” he asks quietly, sitting down heavily on his bed. It feels like his body sinks into the mattress, exhaustion from the most basic exertion running over him and swallowing him whole. “Nobody deigned to tell me.”

The nurse pauses before she finishes rolling his IV rack back into its proper place. “You were having seizures when you were brought in. They wouldn’t stop obstructing our work and tried to restrain you regardless.” She takes a deep breath, a cold shadow falling over her face. “You could have died. You almost did. One of them was putting pressure on you to keep you from moving and...you stopped breathing. They had to be thrown out.” She huffs and helps him lay back down, pulling the blanket over him. “They were insisting that you need to be fully restrained at all times. We’ve gotten calls because we haven’t done that. One of them tried to come in while you were sleeping.”

“Are you going to, now that I can move?”

“No.” She shakes her head. “I’m not. Unless you start displaying dangerous behaviors, I’m not handcuffing you to the bed.”

“You place a lot of trust in me, for who I am.” He settles back into the pillows. “Has it ever occurred to you that that trust might be foolish?”

“Oh, sure,” she says, shrugging. “I know there’s a damn good chance that you could kill me.”

“And that doesn’t stop you?”

“Why would it? You’re my patient, honey. You need help right now. I’m doing my job and I'm going to treat you just the same as I’d treat anyone else. If that bites me in the ass, that bites me in the ass.” 

He tilts his head to the side. Her scrubs are pink again, but it’s a darker color than before. No Hello Kitty. He almost wishes that she would come back with those scrubs again. “Interesting, I suppose. It seems unwise to treat me with the same regard as a random man off the street.”

“For all I know, you  _ were  _ a random man off the street at one point. I don’t let personal biases get in the way of my job. That’s not how being a nurse works. You seem awfully worried about it, babe.”

They’re looking at each other, now. It’s not quite tense. 

“People usually have different reactions to me. I would like to know why you act the way you do.”

She takes a seat on the side of his bed. “Sometimes you can tell when someone hasn’t been treated right. And I can’t lie to you--I don’t like how those fancy Future Foundation people talk to you. They act like you’re some monster. Or a baby who can’t take care of himself just because you were on those pills.”

“Not inaccurate summations of me at various points of my life.” Her brows knit together, but she doesn’t seem to have a good answer for him. 

She sighs, then, perhaps unintentionally resting her hand over his with the blanket as a layer between them. It’s fine now, if she touches him. He doesn’t mind anymore. She is kind. Kind in a way so many people aren’t. 

“I just want to see you get better, like I want to see all my patients get better. You’re polite and make it easy for us to treat you. I have no reason to treat you like you’re dangerous if you haven’t proved that you are.”

“I am sure I’ve sent people here before.”   
  


“Oh, sure. But that doesn’t matter when you’re the one who’s here now. Nothing outside this room is going to influence how I take care of you unless it absolutely has to. Got it?”

“I suppose. You could say it’s an admirable way of approaching your work.”

“That’s just how it should be.” The room is still cold. It’s never not been cold. Even with socks, his feet are freezing. The fluorescent lights kind of sting his eyes if he looks at them for more than a moment. He tilts his head to the side, looking at the nurse. Her eyes are dark, her pupils almost lost in her irises. “What kind of nurses did you have before?”   
  


He raises an eyebrow. “I am the result of unethical human experimentation. I think you can answer that question.”

Her eyes glance up to the scar on his forehead, for just a second. For  _ just  _ a second. But it’s long enough.

“Let’s hope I’m doing a better job than they are, then.”

“I can assure you that you are.”

A smile cracks across her face. “That’s good to know, baby. That’s good to know.”

She stands up, then, his eyes following her across the room. “Rest. You pushed yourself today.”

“You say that every day.”

“Am I wrong?” She raises an eyebrow. “You’re exhausted every time I see you.”

“That makes sense, considering I’m in withdrawal.” The IV in the back of his hand stings. His braided-back hair scratches the back of his neck. The lights are too bright. “Will you turn the light off?”

“Of course, honey. Sleep well.”

_ Sleep, Kamukura. You need to recover.  _ They didn’t give him a blanket in Hope’s Peak. No pillow, either. Just a bare mattress. It was cold there, too. Colder, even. His fingers would get too numb to move. _ You can take it. We made you so that you could take it. I’ll see you in the morning.  _

The blanket cuts the cold, here. The pillow muffles the sound. The nurse closes the door behind her. So it’s quiet. It’s quiet, and the moonlight spills into the room. This is different from the underground cell. There’s a window. He can see the skyline when he rolls over. 

Rest. Rest is a strange thing. He’s not quite sure whether he likes it or not. But he has to give into it, regardless.

He sleeps better tonight. 

\--

Another day and he can be trusted to feed himself. They’ll only give him plastic cutlery. He drops the chopsticks the first time, but the nurse is patient and encouraging.

“You’ve got this, baby.”

_ You’re better than this, Kamukura. Eat. There’s no use in denying yourself what you need just to prove a point.  _

His shoulders stiffen and he doesn’t so much as falter for the rest of the meal. He’s quite done with being inconvenienced like this. 

(He doesn’t throw it up, either.) 

He can even shower by himself. Someone is close by, just in case he falls. But he doesn’t fall. The weaknesses that have been plaguing him in this past week or so are now going to be removed. Excised quickly and accurately, before it can spread into something more permanent. 

Water courses down a body racked with pain. It’s warm. He’s allowed to have warm water here. They don’t limit the time it takes to clean himself either--“You doing alright in there?”--just make sure he hasn’t collapsed. 

He won’t. He’s done collapsing. His hand leaves a print on the steamy tiles of the wall as he holds himself up, his knees  _ still  _ shaking. He profoundly hates weakness in everyone else, and he hates it even more in himself. He is perfect. At least in intention. In initial execution. Not now. He will be perfect again soon enough. Arguably even more perfect than before, now that he’s being weaned off his pills. With different pills.

The water has turned from warm to hot, and it’s a new sensation. He doesn’t get many new sensations. They’ve already washed his hair so he doesn’t bother with it, but cleaning his body takes more than long enough regardless. The soap is going to dry out his skin.

He turns off the water. It gets colder in the shower stall. That’s a new sensation, too.

  
  


\--

“Can we talk?”   
  


Naegi is back. Again. No Kirigiri. Just him. He weasels his way in when the nurse is out doing the rounds. There’s no barrier, anymore. He can move and talk. There’s no reason that he can’t have a conversation with the man. No physical reason, anyway.

He curls onto his side and won’t face Naegi. There’s no IV in his hand anymore and he can tuck his arms against his chest. He stares out the window. It’s cloudy today, windy outside. Dead leaves blow past the window. People on the street below tighten their coats around themselves when the gusts roll through, knocking open trash can lids and sending plastic bags flying down the road. 

Winter is close. 

“I know you’re upset, but it doesn’t do either of us any good for you to just ignore me. I…” he trails off. “I want to figure this out. I don’t want you to be hurting anymore because of something I did.”   
  


Then he should have left the pill bottle alone.

“I don’t expect to be forgiven, but--” And yet, that sounds exactly like what he expects. Why make such a daily, concerted effort if not to be forgiven? He feels bad. It’s more than clear that he feels bad. It’s present in all his mannerisms that Izuru is ignoring: his nails are bitten down and his eyes are nervous, jumping from one thing to the next before falling back on Izuru once more. “--I would like to come to an understanding.”

He says nothing. He doesn’t care about saving Naegi’s feelings, his guilty conscience. He doesn’t care about much of anything but how Makoto Naegi feels is so far beyond Izuru’s ability or want to care that it may as well be a joke. There isn’t much that’s worth giving a damn about. At the end of the day, it’s really all the same. Nothing changes just because one man is lying awake at night beating himself up about what he did. The sun still rises. The sun still sets. Izuru is still feverish. 

It’s lowered but refuses to break. At this point the doctor seems confident it’s close to breaking, handing him Tylenol and a paper cup of water. “You’re almost there, Kamukura. I don’t doubt you’ll be discharged within the next two days.”

He supposes he’ll be fine, back in his cell, with a proper prescription. They won’t be allowed to take these pills from him. Well...they could. Nobody is going to stop anyone from taking something from him. In the eyes of the world and even his coworkers, he deserves it. Coworkers. What a mundane word for them. 

He is going to find out exactly who told the foundation that he was dependent. There are...three people who know. Komaeda, who follows him diligently. Sonia, who found the bottle in his suit coat and stole it from him, trying to coax something out of him before she gave it back.

He snapped her wrist and took the pills from her limp hand. Fuyuhiko knows, too, finding out from whispers and rumors. So more people probably know. But those three are the only ones who’ve seen the pills go into his mouth, who’ve held the bottles in their hands. Sonia would sell him out. Fuyuhiko will do anything to see him fall. Anything that can knock his feet out from under him. It’s unlikely that Komaeda would be the one who handed him over. But he can never be truly sure.

They’ll answer to him. 

“Kamukura?”

Naegi is still there. He hasn’t left. Izuru hasn’t moved. 

It’s just them in the room. The door is open. The nurse is going to come back. But he doesn’t know when. She has other things to do. Better things to do, especially now that he’s restored himself to much of his previous strength. 

The wind whistles outside. A raindrop splatters against the window. Then another.

“Kamukura…” he sighs. “I’m sorry. I’m just trying to help. But I can’t make it better if you don’t talk to me.”

Noticeably small-sounding steps echo down the hall, hidden under the step pattern that belongs to the nurse. Makoto stiffens and turns back as she pokes her head in, a young boy holding her hand. A gaming system is tucked securely under his arm.

“I hate to bother. Are you busy?”

“No,” he says, before Makoto can get a word out. “He was just leaving.”

She smiles at him, nodding in understanding. “That’s good.” Makoto awkwardly gets to his feet. 

“I’ll be back when you’re discharged. You can’t avoid this conversation forever, you know.”   
  


He can, and he will. He has nothing he wants to say. Naegi waves at the child on his way out. He blinks back. 

As soon as Naegi is down the hall, the nurse squats down to the child’s height. “It’s okay. Go on, you can ask him.”

He fumbles in slowly, as if nervous. “The nurse says you’re good at everything.”

“That’s correct.” A simple way of putting it. But he isn’t sure why the nurse is speaking about him to a child. He can’t be older than seven. He’s wearing a jacket over his hospital gown, a reference to another video game. There are stickers all over the console in various states of disrepair. A well-loved toy, then.

He holds out his gaming system. “Nobody else can beat the boss.”

He pauses, then blinks at the child. “Do you want me to finish off the enemy, or the entire game?”

“Just the boss.” 

Izuru takes the console from him, taking note of the fingerprints on the screen. Varied. Likely more than one person had been consulted. He’s likely a last resort.

He raises an eyebrow at the nurse. She shrugs. “None of the kids can beat it. I thought you’d want something to do. Someone to talk to who isn’t in a suit.”

Fair enough. 

He turns back to the child. “Give me just a moment.”

The game is paused, right before the fight begins. He takes quick stock of what he’s working with--the character is underleveled with few healing items. That’s of no consequence. 

He’s reminded of the girl, then. The one in that ugly maze. They took her hair clip when they captured him. He’ll probably never see it again. He still doesn’t know why he held onto it. It bothers him to reach into his pocket and not feel the shape of it against his fingers. 

He pushes her corpse out of his mind and begins to play. The boss music fills the room. It’s surprisingly bright and cheery, like something that might be played at a sports game. Not that they really have those reinstated quite yet. 

So he plays. The child stands close and peers over his shoulder, watching in awe as he evades every attack and returns with his own. 

“You’re good at this.”

“They made me to be good at most things,” he says absently, landing another critical hit. 

“Who? Your mom and dad?”

“I do not have parents.”

“But I have parents. All the doctors and other people here have parents. Are yours dead?” As blunt as any child ought to be. 

“You were born. I was made.” 

“That’s the same thing!” he protests, sticking his thumb in his mouth. The nurse watches on and nods at him. _ If he gets to be too much, I’ll take him out.  _

He doesn’t mind the boy, actually. 

“Your mother and father made you,” he explains. “Doctors and scientists made me.”

His brow knits together as he thinks hard about it, clearly not understanding. “But why don’t you have a mom and dad? That’s how everyone gets here.”   
  


A few more rounds, and the boss fight will be done. “A man and woman birthed the body I have. But some very smart and very greedy people took someone and did lots of things to someone’s body and mind, until they were gone and I was here.”

“Is that why your hair is so long?”

“Yes.”   
  


“Is that why your eyes are red?”   
  


“Yes.”   
  


“Is that why you’re so good at video games?”   
  


“Yes.”

“Is that--”

“Are you going to stop asking questions?”

He giggles. “You’re funny.”

“Don’t bug him, honey.” The nurse leans over and watches herself. “That’s not very nice when he’s helping you.” The boy nods and immediately jumps into the bed next to him, scooting him over so he can get a better view. “Get off him--”

“It’s fine.” He just wants to see. There’s nothing to punish in that. Children are curious, inquisitive creatures. There’s nothing to punish there. He never had the chance to be a child. So he doesn’t give them the same disregard that he’ll give to most adults. Children’s minds are actively in development. Shoving them off is damaging to that growing mind. He doesn’t really mind kids, doesn’t really feel any real way about them. The child finds his way under the blanket next to him. 

“You’re affectionate.”   
  


“I’m cold,” the child grumbles. “You’re warm. You have the blanket.”   
  


“I have a fever.” 

One last round--the boss fight is over. He didn’t take a single hit. “Here.” He saves the game and hands the console over. He’s given a big gap-toothed grin as thanks. 

“Here! You can watch me now!” He beams up at Izuru before looking pleadingly at the nurse. “Please?”

He catches the nurse’s eye once more. She shrugs. “It’s up to you. I just have to check your temperature.” She’s back in her Hello Kitty scrubs. It’s a familiar routine, now, when she puts the thermometer in his mouth. His fever hasn’t budged.

“He can stay.”

The child is clumsy in how he plays, often making mistakes and missing things that are clear to Izuru’s eye. But he offers no help unless asked. 

“Do you know where the key is?”   
  


“Check behind that tree. There’s an opening.” 

“Thaaaaaank you.” 

He plays quietly, until it’s time for him to leave. Izuru knows he’s never going to see that child again. Something in him just tells him that. Call it a premonition.

“Thank you for playing with me,” the boy says, suddenly a bit bashful. “Thank you for helping.”

He’s quiet for a while. It’s a rare instance where he’s not quite sure what to say. 

“...it was no trouble.”

He should say more. But he  _ doesn’t know what to say.  _

“Bye now.”

“Goodbye, little one.” He sinks back down into his bed. 

The sleep is good. The sleep is restful. No, he really doesn’t mind children at all. 

\--

It’s time for him to be discharged. The fever is gone, the muscle aches are manageable. He can walk without help--he’s no longer considered a fall risk. How reassuring. 

He’s back in his suit. Someone washed it, and washed it properly, too. The nurse seems reluctant to leave, lingering in the room when Kirigiri and Naegi and armed guards pick him up. He’s handcuffed instantly. The metal bites into his wrists. The doctor hands his prescription slips to Kirigiri. 

“Make sure he takes them properly. I’d hate for him to have to return.”

“He was that difficult?” Kirigiri’s voice is clipped. 

“Quite the model patient, actually.” The nurse’s voice is cold. “We’re asking that you treat him properly from now on. We’d hate it if he’d have to come back because he isn’t being fed enough.”

Oh. 

That isn’t quite Future Foundation’s fault, but he isn’t going to fault her for thinking that way.

“We can’t help it if he doesn’t eat.” Kirigiri crosses her arms. “It’s not like we’re going to force food down his throat. I’ll make sure myself that he takes it.” The nurse gives him a look, then, and if he could feel shame it would be burning him alive now. But he doesn’t, so it isn’t. (Or so he says to himself.)

“Very well, then.”

He doesn’t really find that he wants to leave, or talk to any of them. All the meaningless chatter is completely tuned out. Of course, he knows exactly what’s going on around him at every second. It would defeat the purpose of being him if he couldn’t.

Some more words are swapped around. He doesn’t care about them. He’s roughly pulled to his feet--they’re taking him back. The nurse’s eyes are on him as he does.

They pass through the pediatric ward on the way back. He doesn’t see the little boy with his game system. He’s practically shoved into the back of the car, trapped between Naegi and Kirigiri.

Naegi opens his mouth, until Kirigiri shakes her head. He doesn’t move. His gaze settles on the windshield, staring out at the road stretching out in front of them. It’s cold and rainy. Their lights are on and the wipers swish back and forth, pushing water away so that the driver can see.

The light of the hospital fades from the mirrors. Nobody says anything. But the man in front puts on the radio, letting the bubblegum pop fill the cramped space. 

He’ll be back in his cell before long. With new pills. 

He thinks he likes pink a little more now.

**Author's Note:**

> can you tell that im working through some shit rn lol  
> anyway ily please drink some water and take care of yourself.
> 
> -fen <3


End file.
